


You were my everything, I was your nothing (You are our death wish)

by silverleviathan



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Amnesia, Complete disregard for how phones work at the end of the world, Fluff, Frank is a bit of an asshole, Implied Sexual Content, Implied Suicide Attempt, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Murder, lots and lots of swearing, temporary insanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 14:17:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2113077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverleviathan/pseuds/silverleviathan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One rebellion in a sleepy English town. One terrorist attack in North America. One stranger with amnesia. Two idiots in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You were my everything, I was your nothing (You are our death wish)

**Author's Note:**

> so this largely features characters i've made up... so don't let that put you off, i guess. Also featuring random anime references. and masturbation! twitter: @_theexplicitone
> 
>  
> 
> this one's for you, megs. faggit.

_"Frank? Frankie? Are you there? Are you okay?"_

_"Gerard! I'm here, I'm fine, we're all fine--"_

_"Frankie, they're dropping fucking bombs--"_

_"I know, I know, look - our TV cut out, are they bombing you too?"_

_"No, they're further North, going up the East Coast..."_

_"Gerard, I - fuck! The generator's stopped. Listen, I'm in the basement, everyone's here, everyone's fine, we're going to be fine--"_

_"Was that -?" "Yeah, right above us... Gerard. I'm scared."_

_"I know Frankie, but you have to stay calm--"_

_"I'm so fucking scared, Gee..."_

_"You're going to be fine. I'll come and find you, okay? When it's over, I'll find you--"_

_"I love you, Gee. I love you so fucking much."_

_"Frankie, I--"_

_The line goes dead._

_***_

At the start, no-one cared. London was miles away, and crammed with the young and reckless - no-one thought it would come to this.

We watched from the safety of our snug country homes as the streets of London revolted, convinced we were buried so far in our fields of barley that they wouldn't come for us. We soon discovered that our safe, snug country homes weren't so safe after all.

It came first in the form of fifty school boys, ambushing our sleepy town with rocks and bold exclaims. Then, before their dust could even settle, men from the cities down the line were flooding into our delicate streets in an avalanche of petrol bombs and switchblades - and so we drew our net curtains, pulled the chain over the door, hunkered down and resigned ourselves to Emmerdale at eight. As if there wasn't enough drama in our lives as it was.

Down the street, Mrs Fletcher was shot dead. Her body lay in the street, still clothed in a lilac nightgown, and eventually rain washed away the blood on the tarmac and even the crows lost interest.

The high school became the base for the resident military, chasing the rebels down to lower ground. In retaliation, the rebels planted mines in the primary school over the way, and in retaliation to _that_ the army boys wedged firearms through the rebels' letter boxes.

The power cut out, and the only source of electricity was to the high school and town hall, both of which had backup generators. Downham was split; army territory began at the Methodist church up to the main road, rebel land from what used to be the Watermeadow estate to the river. The surrounding fields and patches of unclaimed territory became war zones while the town square and market place were kept carefully neutral; residents on the main street were relocated to estates in the east; back alleys became drinking grounds for their respective owners. Both sides had valuable assets; the army claimed both the high school and the gym, housing their many officers and offices; they also controlled the four main rounds, monitoring what came in and who came through. The rebels has seized the train station and had supplies and recruits coming from London and every city along the way; the river brought a form of transport and escape, should the bridge be demolished to ensure a clean getaway.

Rations were to be collected at the town hall, where a brief news update was shown on the projector, usually a (steadily rising) statistic on deaths and crimes committed. Perhaps a short clip on a the chaos in London too, if we were lucky. Then we were escorted back through town to our digs, where we stayed until the uniforms came to collect us again the next day.

It went on, and so our continued hope that it would all go away remained present in our minds. The furniture store exploded in flames. The army used the supermarket car park as a training ground. We were moved into the Methodist church, and supplied with sleeping bags and camping stoves, one per family. Four men drowned in the river.

On the news, they said rescue teams were being sent out to collect civilians to be evacuated to America. So we held on, sat tight, waited for our saviour. It would come. It had to.

One of the warehouses behind the train station caught alight and blazed well into the following days. The flu made itself known to us, and in the cramped, muggy heat of the church the pharmacy's stores were run into the ground. A fortnight later, the fields became swamps from a raging thunderstorm and still, no-one came.

Our daily rations and fuel for our stoves were now brought to us, which we wouldn't have minded had it not meant the loss of our connection to the outside world. Without our daily news bulletins, we were ignorant and even more vulnerable than before.

The rations got smaller. Some of the older, frailer ones gave theirs to the children. The result was inevitable, but they couldn't survive without that extra nutrition... So we propped up the bodies against the wall and pretended nothing was amiss.

By now, no more than five months after the first warning headline on the news, we were living like animals. Forbidden or too scared to go outside, hundreds of us crammed inside a prison under the guise of safety, the stench of urine, sweat and the decomposition of flesh clinging to our skin.

We left the day the first tank crunched down the street. Alexandria, Damian, Sophia and I, cramming our bags with as much as our shoulders would allow and slipping away into the night, headed for the capital and terrified of what we'd find.

***

[ Frank's POV ]

It's silent. It wasn't silent before.

He knows the building. Summer evenings pulling up the the house, dry smoke billowing over the fence. The bitter nip of wine, the salty bite of barbecue tofu. He was welcome here. He still is.

He knocks on the door. The crowbar is heavy in his palm.

"Frankie! My god, it's been months! Are you and your family doing okay? Come on in, do you have enough food? I'm sure we could spare some if needed, our pantry's in pretty wealthy supply..."

Frank knows this. It's why he's here.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and swings.

***

Six days. That's how long she's out there, slumped against the wall across the street. Six days of Jamia casting worried glances through the curtains and Frank stubbornly ignoring them.

Midnight rolls around the same as always, with Frank's children and wife asleep and the man himself at the window, staring resolutely out into the shadows.

He sits up slightly. A shift in the dark. A glint. Like... Moonlight on metal.

He squints.

A corvette, the red dulled to sludge in the grey, crawling along the sidewalk.

Frank's hands only tremble a little as he undoes the latch and slips into the cold air. The car doesn't have it's lights on, probably to save power, and the streetlights haven't worked in a month. It's just as hard for them to see him as it is for him to see them.

He scuttles across the road to her as stealthily as he can manage before yanking her back into the darkness of a porch. She's unconscious and the empty water bottle in her loose grip is sent skittering off the curb. Frank freezes.

The car doesn't stop, just cruises slowly past as he holds his breath. He only dares to move again once the corvette is long out of sight.

He stares down at the body in his lap. What was the point of that? What's it to him if some kid gets picked up by the NJ bandits?

He could just leave her. He's got so many mouths to feed anyway. He doesn't owe her anything.

_It could have been my kid,_ he thinks. He could die any day, fall prey to a desperate man like himself. They could be kidnapped. It could still be his kid, Lily or Cherry or Miles, and in his arms is a man's daughter and there isn't a situation on earth he wouldn't condemn a man who left his child to die.

He brings her inside.

"Jamia!" He hisses from the bottom of the stairs,  _"Jamia!"_

She appears on the landing, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"What?" Pausing, she takes in the girl draped over Frank's arms. She scowls. "About time, too."

"Whatever. Just get down here and help me, will you? She's barely alive."

Frank ignores the sarcastic retort she spits at him because she's padding down the stairs nonetheless. He regrets calling her now. Still, he shifts his hold on the girl to let Jamia take some of the weight, and between them they lower her gently onto the kitchen table.

She's got to be about eighteen, with long matted blonde hair and ink cascading across her skin. He doesn't let himself look for long, turning to Jamia and ignoring the fact she was already glaring at him. He pulls the duct tape from the kitchen drawer and binds the girl's wrists, ignoring Jamia's look of disgust.

"Look after her. I'm going to bed."

"Wow, thanks. She's  _your_ refugee! Why do  _I_ have to look after your stray?"

He turns away, climbing the stairs and trying not to clench his fists.

***

The morning finds Jamia coaxing water down the - still unconscious - girl's throat.

"Fucking _great_." Jamia doesn't flinch when his hand slams onto the tabletop, just pushes a strand of hair away from the girl's brow.

Frank's temper flares. He slams the door on his way out.

***

When he returns, it's dark. Not just out, but everywhere. No electricity. Nobody to use it even if there was.

There's muffled giggling coming from upstairs which explains where the kids are, though Jamia's nowhere to be seen.

_Good_ , Frank thinks sullenly, collapsing onto the couch in the den. He's not sure how much longer he can put up with her arrogance.

It's only now he notices he's not alone in the room; the girl is perched on the other settee, back ramrod straight, wrists still bound and eyeing him with something akin to fear.

Frank curses himself for not being more alert.

He waits for her to speak, but when no explanation is forthcoming, barks out, " _well_?"

She doesn't answer, just watches with wide eyes. "What's your name? You're not a fucking mute, are you?"

Her stare doesn't waver. Frank shifts uncomfortably. " _Answer me_!" Abruptly her gaze hardens. Hostile. She leaves the door open when she strides away.

He isn't sure if it's an invitation or a dare.

***

Frank awakes to the sound of music, the gentle plucking of guitar strings alien to his ears. He'd fallen asleep slumped on the windowsill again, and his neck aches from the awkward angle - he massages it as he follows the melodies down into the basement.

Illuminated by the flicker of a single candle, the stranger is curled around Pansy, the one thing he'd managed to save, wanted to save. The music plays out twanged and foreign without the cushion of an amp.

_How dare she. Doesn't she realise? Can't she see?_

"You play?" Is what comes out when he opens his mouth. His voice cracks as he speaks.

She doesn't reply, just continues to thumb at the strings. The duct tape on her wrists has been bitten away.

Frank doesn't stay to listen. He can't bear it. It hurts too much.

***

"Get up."

The girl blinks at him, startled, from her space on the floor and he drops the backpack at her feet. "Get up," he says again.

This time she obeys, cautiously slipping the bag over her shoulder and eyeing him apprehensively.

"Supply run," he throws over his shoulder as he leads the way to the front door, when he's stopped by a hand on his arm. He flinches away, reflexively going for the knife tucked into his belt before he can stop himself. It's just the kid.

It's just the kid, and she's not going to hurt him.

She's flickering her gaze between Frank and the hallway. He's confused until he hears Jamia cooing at one of the kids, and his shoulders slump suddenly.

He just shakes his head and unlatches the door.

***

"This is... you?"

It's the first time he's heard he speak and she's not even looking at him. She's staring at the poster on the wall in confusion.

And she's right - his own face is glaring out at the pair, eyes ringed with black, smudged there by a gentle hand; thumb swiping softly at his skin, heart thudding in his chest, praying the man doesn't notice the rosy blush to the cheeks his hands caress...

No. _No_.

***

The girl is crying. She's curled away from him, shoulders spasming underneath her ripped shirt. Her wrists are clasped awkwardly to her chest, the silver duct tape carelessly slapped onto her skin glinting wetly. Frank reaches for his knife to cut her loose but it's not there - he spies it a moment later embedded deep in the wall to the right of the poster. He swallows and tastes the blood in his throat, sees the blood on his knuckles, the wall, Gerard's face when he reaches for him but he's too late, always too late, always too _fucking_ weak when he hits the floor.

He hits the floor. He hits the floor. He hits the floor. He hits the floor he hits the floor he hits the floor he hits the floor he hits the floor again and again but never _right_

 

 

Silence. Silent except for the corpse of the scream in his throat. Frank is alone. He can't hear his breaths, his heartbeat. He hopes he's dead. It would be easier.

***

"It's not too late, sweetheart."

_Frank's heart beats once, painfully. "I miss you."_

"I'm right here, I promise."

_Frank's heart beats twice, painfully. "The real you."_

"What makes you think I'm not real?"

_Frank's pulse stutters to life beneath his skin. "The real you doesn't want me. I can't have him."_

"Frankie... I was yours all along. Open your eyes."

_Frank gasps for breath. "I fucked up, Gerard. I can't go back. Don't make me."_

"I'm back there, waiting for you. Jamia. Your beautiful children. Open your eyes."

_Frank swallows. Tastes blood. Coughs. "I need you, Gerard. Please. I can't do this."_

"Open your eyes, sweetheart."

_Frank opens his eyes._

_***_

"Jamia?"

She glances up, double takes. Her hair is greasy, her face is gaunt, her clothes hang off her bones like a ghost. She's beautiful.

There's a lump in Frank's throat as he chokes out her name again, raising his arms. She collapses into them and they cry together like they haven't in years, clinging on to one another like if they let go, they'll fall.

***

A while later, Frank sniffles, wipes his eyes. "So, um. I'm home!"

Jamia snorts. "What took you so long? We've been waiting for you."

Frank knows they're not talking about the supply run.

"Where's Pansy?"

"Pansy?"

He shrugs sheepishly. "The girl. Pansy. I don't know."

"No, no, I like it." A small smile tugs at Jamia's lips. "She's in the garden. Go make things right."

_***_

"I'm waiting for him."

Pansy flinches, whipping round to glare at him. The twig she'd been picking at falls to the floor.

Frank picks it up, offers it to her. "If you were wondering why we're here, why we didn't leave Jersey. Go somewhere safer. I'm waiting for Gerard. He's coming. He promised."

Pansy watches the movement of her thumb stroking slowly over the twig. "Gerard..."

Frank nods, even though she's not looking at him. "Maybe that makes me a bad parent. I mean, my kids aren't safe here. There are more criminals in Jersey now than there were before. But... I have to wait for him. I love him."

Pansy absentmindedly scratches at the wood with a thumbnail, still not looking at him, but Frank knows she's listening. He glances around the yard. "This place isn't mine, you know. My place got bombed a few months ago, totally destroyed except for the basement. That over there is the only city in Jersey that's still standing."

There's a pause. She lets the stick slip from her grasp.

"I'm sorry. For whatever happened yesterday."

Finally, _finally_ she looks up. "You don't remember?"

At the shake of his head, she adds, "It's one of the few things I do remember."

"Oh." _Oh_.

"I'm waiting too, you know. I just don't know who for."

She'd gone back to staring at her ratty converse but meets his eyes when he links their fingers together.

"We'll be okay."

***

Jamia's great. Jamia _gets_ it. He recalls his attempts at stuttered confession but she'd cut him off with a hand on his cheek and a whispered, "You can't help who you love."

He tried to love her, he _did_. He just couldn't resist the lure of wild black hair and pale skin and a dick.

Now it's the first time alone he's had in months and he can't resist the lure of his reflection.

The tightness of his jeans up his legs, smooth, pale skin of his torso contrasting with dark tattoos. The softness of his hair when he reaches up to pull on it - he feels good, he feels _sexy_ \- every glance in the mirror just gets him harder, hotter. He pictures Gerard, caressing his chest and plastered to his back - he'd bury his face in Frank's hair, slide a hand along the ridges of his pec and pinch a nipple between his fingers. Frank mirrors imaginary Gerard's actions, tugging hard and shit, _shit_ , he has to - he's got to -

Gerard would make him beg, on his back, slamming into him he'd have to scream Gerard's name so everyone knew who he belonged to, soaked in sweat their world would shrink until it was just the two of them, just the two of them in ecstasy...

Frank forces his eyes open to glance in the mirror, to his spread legs and wild eyes and he wants - he wants to be sexy, to make Gerard want him, need him, get him hot and sweaty and desperate and so, so hard.

And after, Gerard would wrap him in his arms and hold him until he stopped shaking, until the world stopped spinning and the stars exploded in a thousand brilliant blinding lights and rained down onto their entwined bodies and Frank would love, and Frank would _be loved._

_***_

It happens on a cool evening three months after Pansy stumbled down their street, staggered into their lives. She slots into their world like a puzzle piece they didn't know was missing, Frank's best friend, accomplice, his hand to hold when the waiting becomes too much.

The sun is just grazing the gold-shot horizon as Frank and Pansy pick their way through the back alleys of the city. Two figures, ambling down the main street.

They're not really a threat but Frank is on edge anyway, clutching Pansy's arm in the same second he notices the red corvette rounding a corner a block behind the strangers. It takes him another second to register the pistol peeking out from the driver's window.

That's when he really begins to panic.

He's already begun to back away when he abruptly realises Pansy isn't at his side; she's sprinting ahead to the strangers. The strangers with a fucking _gun_ pointed at their backs, jesus.

"Gemma!" one of them shouts, the exclamation carried on the breeze as the shorter of the two extends out their arms to Pansy.

The first shot explodes into existence just as Pansy barrels into the pair, and all three crash into the sidewalk.

Frank watches in slow motion as the rock that somehow made it into his palm fractures the windscreen of the car, his legs apparently having carried him onto the hood of the car. The glass shatters; Frank flings himself away. A figure scrambles through the shards to stand on the bonnet, points the gun at Frank, sprawled on the curb - a pair of tattooed arms wrap around the man's neck. A man with olive skin knocks the gun to one side; Frank rises to his feet, staggers forward, and pushes the knife from his belt into the fleshy expanse of the guy's chest.

Pansy releases him - the man slithers off the car.

They leave him there.

***

Later that night, Frank is packing when Pansy enters his room, dwindling awkwardly in the doorway. He looks up curiously.

"Everything's changing," she mutters, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Isn't that a good thing? I thought Alexandria was going to tell you about yourself?"

"Yeah but... what if I'm a bad person? I'm not sure I want to know what made Gemma lose her memory in the first place."

Frank wraps her in a hug. She burrows into his chest. "I know you're not a bad person. You'll always be my Pansy, okay?"

"Get a _grip_!" A voice snaps from the hallway. They both look up as Alexandria strides towards the pair. "Who _are_ you? 'Cause you sure as shit aren't Gemma in there." She raps on Pansy's forehead with a knuckle, and frowns. "The Gemma I knew didn't give a _shit_. Out of control. There was no-one she cared about. Extreme. Messed up. Jealous, protective, fucking dangerous with these mood swings that would make her kill a man. But you know what? Gemma was sad. Have you looked at the skin of your wrists? She was sad _all the fucking time_ \- and now you've finally got your chance to be happy and you're throwing it away."

They watch her stalk away with matching expressions of surprise. After a moment Pansy snickers and smothers her face into Frank's chest; "I remember her," she giggles. "Pushy bitch."

***

The spray paint coats Frank's fingers black, sliding wetly down the lines of his tattoos. He shakes the can again, splattering his shirt in the process, but finishes his message nonetheless. He examines it for a moment, before adding a tiny heart to the end and dropping the can to the sidewalk. He turns and joins the gaggle waiting for him at the corner, feeling stupid. Who's he kidding?

Gerard's not coming.

***

[ Alexandria's POV ]

Gemma's nowhere to be seen, even though it was only seconds ago he hand was wrenched from Alex's grip. Damian and Sophia had been swallowed into the chaos the moment they'd leapt from the alley, but it's okay - they're on the high street, headed for the docks. In fact, if she squints through the smoke, she can _just_ glimpse the silhouette of the lone ship. They'll meet up there.

'There' just so happens to be a half-mile west. Now all she has to do is get through the civil war blocking her path.

She's seen so much anime in her time that it should be easy. Surely, after hours of studying Levi leap from tree to tree, days of examining Maka dodge blows and deliver her own while keeping her (sluttily short) skirt in check, she could dance through these forces and not lose a breath.

She smirks to herself. She has _experience_. The thought dissapates the second she eats pavement - it's a writhing mass of bodies, an enormous entity, a constant push-pull-shove-tug that crushes her back down as she stumbles forward.

Damn, she wishes she had Liz and Patti right now - or, no, wait, Soul, witch hunter would own this shit. Or even better, the simplest damn manoeuvre gear - sail right over this bullshit in seconds.

Shit, shit, she's bleeding from her _face_. She didn't know there was this much blood to kick out of her. She can't breathe. There's too much smoke, too many people, not enough stars in the sky when she finds herself gazing up at it.

They picked the wrong night. They should have done this earlier, when the fights weren't as brutal, the people in them weren't as desperate.

They thought the fights would ease off - that the military would do the _sensible_ thing and retreat, let Liverpool go and protect the East Coast of the US instead.

Apparently not.

She would have waited, is the thing. Waited until a side wins and _then_ take the boat across. Except in the whispers of spies from both sides was laced a date, a time, and a codename that would end them all.

_Time is running out_. Abruptly, Alexandria is tugged upright and hauled onto a shoulder - raising her head she squints dumbly at the figure limping along after them.

Through the last of the crush... Along the dock... Over the edge...

She swats at the bugs. Little white dots in her eyes, like fireflies.

Damian, leaning over the edge of the ship. Damian, screaming. Screaming a name. Reaching out.

"Get on board, boy!"

"Sophia, grab my hand!"

"We have to leave! Someone get him..."

"Sophia, _take_ my _hand_!"

"Kid, we don't have time, I'm _sorry_ \--"

" _SOPHIA_!"

In the end, she's the one that lets go.

***

"...Hey?"

Alexandria is lying on the bottom bunk in the forward cabin, staring at the bed above her and trying not to think of anything. It's for the best.

She turns to face the girl. She seems nervous, awkward - she keeps ruffling her short black hair self-consciously, and picks at the sleeves of her hoodie. She's pretty - Alexandria hates pretty girls. The stranger's smile falters a bit at the silence.

"...Hey."

"Would you like some tuna? It's lunch, and-- and you didn't have any breakfast..." She holds out a bowl of pink mush, and Alexandria wants to knock it away, yell at her to get that shit _out of her face_.

"I'm not hungry."

The girl's face scrunches up uncomfortably. "Please. None of your friends are eating either."

_Oh really_? She stands abruptly, swaying slightly with the movement of the boat, and storms out of the cabin, slamming the door open and leaving the bewildered looking girl behind her. She finds Gemma in the chain locker, knees tucked under her chin and she can't control the rage welling up inside of her.

"What are you _doing_?!"

Gemma doesn't move except to lazily look her up and down. Alexandria grits her teeth. "Why are you fucking skipping meals again?"

She doesn't react, just stares straight ahead with the same empty expression.

Alexandria takes a fistful of her hair and tugs, forcing her to make eye contact. "You wanna go back to how it was before, huh?"

" _Alexandria_?!" Damian strides over to her and pulls her away. With her hair still locked in Alexandria's fist, Gemma follows them soundlessly until Damian pries her fingers apart and she can crawl back into her corner.

He turns on Alex. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

"She's not eating! She's going to go back to the way she was before--"

"No, she's _not_. She's _grieving_."

"She's using it as an excuse!"

"Why do you always do this? I don't get it! Give her some room to breathe instead of beating her up every time she makes a mistake!"

Alexandria turns on her heel and stalks away, making sure to shoulder past the weird tuna girl on her way out.

***

Alex can't sleep.

She hates it when this happens. It never matters how many times she tosses and turns in her stupid cramped bunk, her mind refuses to settle. The stupid rocking of the boat doesn't help, either. Instead of being soothing she just feels sick as well as tired.

She decides to go and find Damian. He'll help - back in England when she was plagued with insomnia he would talk her to sleep, stories of mishaps with his dogs and awkward wedding photos while she was curled up against his chest.

She sneaks out of the cabin and begins to creep towards the hold where she knows Damian sleeps when the sea breeze carries hushed voices over to her.

Alexandria has never denied her insatiable curiosity.

_"Why do you let her treat you like that...? What the hell happened to you three back there?"_

_"...We lost a dear friend. She's just grieving. It's how she deals with it."_

_"What, by beating the crap out of you? Some friend."_

_"Girlfriend. I let her because I love her."_

_"Are you grieving?"_

_"... Yes. Quietly."_

_"Why quietly? Isn't it better to let it out?"_

_"Not necessarily. It would just hurt them. I... can't put them through that again."_

She climbs into the chain locker, and the voices quiet at her presence. Alex squints through the darkness to see Gemma and the weird tuna girl leaning against each other, legs tucked beneath them and heads resting together.

_They look pretty cozy. That bitch better not get too comfortable._

She doesn't say anything, just stands there and waits silently until the girl takes the hint and leaves. She squeezes Gemma's hand gently before she walks away. Alexandria watches with narrowed eyes.

Now alone, she sits down next to her and hugs her knees to her chest, watching Gemma from the corner of her eye.

"I'm just scared for you," she whispers.

She turns her head just in time to see Gemma's bottom lip quiver slightly and immediately tugs her into a fierce hug as the sobs begin to wrack her body.

"I'm sorry," Gemma chokes out into her shoulder, over and over and Alex just repeats it back every time until the inevitable lump in her throat and sting in her eyes make themselves known. They cry together, bodies entwined, and only stop to wipe their aching eyes when the sky is shot with gold and a new day has been born.

***

They reach North Carolina eight days later, along with the other twenty or so refugees. In their time on the boat, Gemma has firmly befriended the weird tuna girl - " _Josie_ ," Gemma insists - though Alex remains stubbornly sceptical of her.

They stand on the deck as the boat pulls into the docks, and as the anchor is dropped, the people around them cheer. Alexandria doesn't join in, but she squeezes Damian's hand happily.

Waiting for them is a woman bearing a clipboard and a relieved smile. "We're not a big organisation," she admits as she shows them around, "but we have a camp further inland where you'll be staying until we can get further help from the government."

And they believe them - _it_. They believe it right up until they get in the Jeep to take them to the refugee camp, until the driver suddenly pulls off the road, turns around, presses a gun to Gemma's head, and tells them to get out of the fucking car.

***

"Stop! Stop it, _fucking stop_ \--"

"No, please, don't hurt her!"

"Get your fucking hands off her, motherfucker--!"

"No, Gemma, _don't_ \--"

The bearded guy elbows Gemma in the face with a swift jerk of the arm not wrapped around Damian's neck. She thunks to the floor, blood seeping through her fingers.

" _Alex_!" She shrieks before she's yanked away, flung backwards, straddled by the one with 'FUCK THIS' tattooed across his knuckles.

Alex watches though helpless tears as her girlfriend's head is slammed into the floor by the fist in her hair. Her eyes don't leave Gemma as her jeans are tugged off, hears the jeers in stereo because she's too busy, too busy being useless while Gemma's punched in the gut so hard she doubles over and retches. Then Alex's face is pushed into the dank carpet and her hips yanked upwards and she zones out, cowers in the confines of her mind because the present is fucking unbearable. Absently she wonders if sex is different to rape; if there really is love and lust in the air instead of sweat, harsh breaths and the residual smoke from bitter cigarettes. She wonders what sex feels like.

Of course, there are the nights she spent with Gemma, but... that wasn't _real_. She doesn't _love_ Gemma. They both know... Gemma has to know... she has to know it was always him. She has to know she could never compare.

"Oh shit. Oh, oh _shit_ \--"

" _What_?"

"We went too far, she's--"

"Shut the fuck up, I'm close--"

"The girl, she won't stop bleeding... we-- we-- _fuck_..."

Suddenly, the hold on her body disappears and Alex slumps forward. Straining to pry open her eyes, they find Damian's own, wide and terrified. She doesn't understand, can't understand Damian's tears or the room's abrupt silence.

That's when she realises.

A person can't lose this much blood and still be alive.

"Just... Dump it outside. It'll be fine, the bandits will come and pick it up soon enough. No-one comes looking for the refugees."

***

_They say you don't know what you have until it's gone... Or what you lost until you find it again._

She's not there. Just as Alexandria had feared, by the time the kidnappers had had their fun and thrown them out onto the street Gemma's body had been taken for target practice or trap bait or some creepy necrophilia shit and Alex is hyperventilating like a motherfucker because what the fuck, she's in the fuck all of North Carolina with nowhere to go and nothing to do and no-one to find. What the hell are they going to do now?

"Maybe she's not dead, though!"

She turns to glare at Damian, but he continues nonetheless. "She could have just passed out, and then woken up out here and wondered off! We should go look for her--"

" _Shut up!_ "

"Why? She could be alive, don't you care about that?"

"She's _dead_. She's in a _better place_ \--"

"How can you say that?"

"Look at us! We just got _kidnapped and abused_ , Damian! Wouldn't it just be easier--"

" _When was the easy option ever the right thing to do?! We of all people know that_!"

His exclamation echoes down the street. Sinking to her knees, she closes her eyes tight against the thin stripes edging out from the cuffs of her sleeves. Unlike Gemma, she doesn't have tattoos to hide behind.

She feels the pressure of an arm over her shoulders and twists into it immediately, burying her face in his shirt and letting the sobs wrack her body.

"I'm sorry. It's just... we came so close to losing her before. I don't want to go through that again."

She remembers it. How small she'd looked amongst the overwhelming hospital furniture, how Damian had cried and Alex had stood off to the side, feeling awkward and out of place. How Sophia brought her red flowers because red was Gemma's favourite colour. How Alex had retched at the sight of her wrists once the bandages finally came off. How she'd made Gemma cry when she admitted she couldn't bear to look anymore.

"We can go anywhere we want," Damian says abruptly. "You name it, we'll get there. The world is our oyster."

Alex sniffles. "I don't like oysters."

He rolls his eyes at her fondly. "Come on. The first place that pops into your head."

She bites her lip thoughtfully. "Florida?"

Damian nods, and stands to brush the dust from the seat of his pants. Dusk is beginning to settle, the sky a pastel blue, tinging orange.

"If we leave tomorrow, the sun will be in the east and Florida is south, so... Damn. I wish I had my camera." Alexandria stands too, wrapping an arm around his waist and wiping her eyes with the other. "The DLSR," he continues, "definitely. Then I could run some colour enhancers through it, bring out those streaks of gold over there, see?" She nods, but he visibly sags, and the spark of excitement that had appeared so briefly is gone. "It's all back home, though. Gone."

"Not gone," Alex counters. "We'll find home one day. And you can take a picture of the sunset every night, and the sunrise every morning, and every perfect moment in between."

***

[ Gerard's POV ]

Nothing happens. There's an FBI officer on every corner and the news reports get increasingly desperate - on the world map, North America is shaded orange with a big 'POTENTIAL THREAT' scrawled across it (over the Atlantic, the UK is an angry red) - but nothing _happens_.

That is, until the officer on Gerard's street drops dead. Suddenly, things are far too real for his liking.

There's the rattle of gunfire outside and he tugs Bandit and Lyn-Z under the breakfast bar just as the front windows shatter.

It's fucking deafening. A machine gun lets loose and Bandit's hysterical, screaming into his chest.

Glancing at the TV, a breaking news bulletin shows images of rubble, smoke; bodies; burning buildings; new explosions and Gerard suddenly feels pretty hysterical himself because he _recognises_ these fire-filled streets.

He dives out from under the bar, glass cutting his palms as he crawls over to where he knows his cell is by the sink, ignoring Lyn-Z yelling his name.

Pressing himself against the wall, he mutters a prayer and dials.

***

Florida is a mess. A wreck. Desolate. Bleak. There are bullet casings in the gutter.

Most of all, though, Florida is silent.

There's no chirp of birds, because there's no food, no litter, no worms when there's six tons of rubble covering the ground. There's no laughter of children or hubbub of people when the citizens are as silent as the streets they lay in.

Granted, there are some parts of Florida that escaped the blitz, but barely. The streets still stand but the houses are lifeless.

All except one.

It used to be called Lancer Avenue. Now, to Florida's fifty or so survivors, it's home.

Three shop windows that aren't empty. It's all they have. The trader, the medic, and the bar.

That's where Bert McCracken spends his days and many of his nights, slumped on a bar stool, pissed out of his mind.

It's better than being sober and out of his mind, he reasons.

It's nice. Ish. It used to be a bistro, except with no electricity it relies on candles and drinks scavenged from surrounding houses. You'd be surprised how many basements have ice boxes, filled with enough alcohol to last... well, to last until the end of the world.

In pride place above the mirrored back wall is a phone the size of a brick, stolen from the lifeless body of an FBI officer. It's not the fact it's government property that makes it a centrepiece, though. It's the fact it's _battery powered_.

Too bas no-one has any batteries.

Gerard joins him most days. He'll perch on a neighbouring stool, order a beer he won't drink and stare wistfully at the cell - it makes Bert's chest ache. He wishes finding batteries meant a call to his family, but unfortunately dead people don't tend to pick up the phone.

After a few hours, he'll tell Bert to take care of himself, push a can of baked beans/pickled vegetables/preserved fruit over to the bartender, and leave his untouched drink on the counter.

The day Gerard breaks, he has been sober for thirteen years, eight months and sixteen days.

"I hit her, Bert." He stares into the pale brown liquid cradled in his palms. His voice breaks on the next sentence. "I hit my wife."

Bert doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.

"She just kept on and on, and Bandit wouldn't stop screaming, and there I was. She blamed it on me, how My Chem finished, and why was I still grieving? It's been four months, why can't I just move on?"

Gerard starts sobbing, covering his face with his hands. "He's dead, my brother's dead, Frank's dead, and I never got to tell him--"

Bert pulls him against his chest just as the tears border on hysterical.

A while later, Gerard lifts his head from the damp patch on Bert's shirt. After a moment, he goes for the can on beer on the counter. It's almost to his mouth when Bert speaks up. "Don't."

The metal rim touches his lips. Neither of them move.

Slowly, Gerard lowers the can, and places it on the counter at arms length. His hands are shaking.

"Okay?" Bert murmurs after a beat. Gerard nods hesitantly, before leaning up and pressing their lips together.

It's not the same, of course it's not. The height is all wrong and his breath tastes vaguely of Bud Lite instead of smoke and those weird English cola sweets Frank liked so much.

It feels right, nonetheless. Bert kisses a little desperately, like he needs it to breathe.

Later, when Gerard leaves the bar, Bert goes with him.

***

Gerard loves Bert. Gerard loves Lyn-Z. But not like he loved Frank. His love for Frank was all-encompassing, taking over his entire being, like he couldn't breathe - he was drowning, flying, like it was killing him yet Frank brought him back to life.

Gerard tells him this. Bert hides his tears behind a bottle of Carling.

He presses a kiss to his cheek, and watches as two strangers stumble into the bar. A man and a woman - part of Gerard scowls at the cliché - in tattered, bloodstained scraps of fabric. Of course.

He shakes his head and turns his attention back to Bert, but not before he spies the trade for their alcohol passing hands.

_Batteries_.

***

_"Gerard? If that's you, my cell's about to die. I'm fine, I'm staying with a bunch of other people in a hospital in Jersey - the big one on fifth street. Come and find me, okay? Love you._

_If you wish to leave a message, press one--"_

Gerard ends the call. They look at him expectantly.

"The answering machine. He left me a message on his fucking answering machine." He can't help but laugh. "Only Mikey."

***

"You're leaving." It's not a question.

"Bert, please--" Gerard links their fingers together. "It's Mikey."

"And what about me? Will you even remember me after you go swanning off with the foreigners?"

"Don't be like this. This isn't you."

"You don't know me! What am I to you - do I make you feel better about yourself because for once there's a bigger fuck-up than you? I'm just another lay to you - a fucking rebound when you realised Frank wasn't coming back!"

Gerard tears his hand away and it's like ripping off a diseased limb.

"You see this?" Bert waves the bottle of beer in Gerard's face. "This is is poison. And this is what it's going to do to me. What it has done to me." He slams the bottle onto the bar, doesn't flinch when it splinters and shatters beneath his fist. "Just go."

Gerard turns. Hesitates.

"Look after B for me?"

He hears it as he strides out into the desolate street. Barely there, a whisper.

"Promise."

***

Alexandria. Alexandria and Damian. Damian and Alex. The musician with no instrument. The photographer with no camera. Something's missing and Gerard can't work out what. Something's wrong and Gerard's not sure he could handle knowing.

The first day they leave they enter Georgia. By day five they're midway through South Carolina. Day ten finds them in North Carolina, and day 25 they're in Baltimore. It takes them five weeks to finally cross the New Jersey border.

"Can we--" he clears his throat. Alexandria and Damian peer at him curiously over the campfire they're roasting chestnuts on. "Can we just make a quick detour?"

Damian's eyebrows knit together, but Alex has a look in her eyes that makes Gerard think she already knows what he's going to say.

***

It's - it's a fucking _wreckage_. It's not even a street anymore. Massive chunks of concrete are embedded in the ground like enormous teeth, gouges in the sidewalk from shrapnel and debris like the trench a claw leaves when dragged through the dirt. Bricks spill out from their nests like scattered marbles. Glass shards like drops of blood from a wound.

It's a carcass, and Gerard prods it with the toe of his boot, treading gingerly through the scraps of hide until he comes to a limb he recognises.

It's mangled, disease-ridden, bled dry. _Lifeless_.

Lyn-Z's harsh words echo in his mind. He wipes at his wet eyes fiercely.

It's nothing he didn't already know. He knew the second that phone call cut off.

He can't bear to look. Gerard turns on his heel and runs away.

***

It's a warm evening a week after their little detour and they're in a cluster of trees just on the fringes of what seems to be the only city in Jersey that hasn't been reduced to dust. Luckily, it's also the city Mikey's in.

Gerard had wanted to go straight in and find him but Alex and Damian insisted they wait until morning. "It's the only city left. Are you expecting it to be all happy and welcoming? It's like you've never been to Jersey before."

Gerard relented and let the couple go scavenge the outer apartments without him. He's aware they use most of the time to fuck but they bring back food so he doesn't complain.

Too much.

Gerard uses the time alone to draw, anyway.

Gerard never used to like his drawings. He would have fits of frustration over the imperfect sweep of a fringe, the uneven arch of an eyebrow, his characters are too fat and the stretch marks are in the wrong places; he can't get the eyeliner to smudge correctly and the lips are too full; the breasts are too big; the breasts are too small; he can't decide on a neckline for his character's shirt.

Now it's his lifeline. His sketches are messy and welcomingly hostile; his characters have hastily scratched-in crows nests; their eyes are dark, defiant, daring; their skin rounds the curves of cheekbones, shoulders, the hollows in their throat. The bags under their eyes are beautiful. Their scars make him smile with pride. Their clothes are ripped and there's dirt under their fingernails; their eyebrows have grown in; their lips are chapped; they stand with their shoulders hunched and they are _people_ \- angry, upset, tired, jealous, weak, strong, desolate, hopeful; raw and grimy and painful and _perfect_.

There's a crack of twigs and he jerks in surprise, turning to greet them with a remark about using protection when-- when--

It's a ghost. Like in MacBeth, Gerard is seeing Frank's ghost - and he _knows_ it can't be real, okay, but-- he-- he just-- _Frank_ \--

Then Frank's dropping his pack and running forward, crying out his name as he crashes into him, sobbing brokenly into his neck. "Frankie," Gerard whispers over and over through his own cracked tears, sweeping his hands up and down the length of Frank's back to convince himself he's really here because oh _god_ , he can't, can't take it in, can't believe it. Frank reaches up to tuck a lock of Gerard's hair behind his ear and press soft kisses along his cheekbone, the curve of his eyebrow, everywhere he can reach. He nuzzles gently, insistently, into Frank's cheek until he finally, finally, slides their smiles together.

And as they kiss, the only thing Gerard thinks, is home.

***

The hospital looks deserted. The windows are grey and empty, the enormous parking lot abandoned. When Frank tries the doors to the main entrance, it's locked.

Gerard doesn't know what to say, what to think. "He said he'd be here."

"Maybe he had to relocate, like me." Frank offers.

"But--"

He's cut off by the ominous click of the safety being taken off. Everyone freezes.

" _Leave_."

"... I can't."

" _What do you want? Why are you here_?"

"I need to find my brother, he left me a message saying he was here--"

" _We don't let strangers in. Take your group and leave._ "

Gerard is grateful Jamia offered to stay behind to look after the kids. He doesn't want them to see him die.

"I can't. I told you."

There's a pause. " _Your brother, you say_?"

Gerard nods, fast, once-two-three.

" _Take out your weapons, put them on the ground over there. One at a time. Move_!"

They do as the guy says, first Alexandria, then Damian, Pansy, Gerard and finally Frank, setting down his knife with obvious reluctance.

"... _Okay. Let's go_." The guy lowers the gun and tucks it into his belt loop, before filling his rucksack with their weapons. Motioning for them to follow, he leads the way around reception and into the ambulance bay, where he produces a key and unlocks the entrance. Holding the door open with a flourish, they file inside.

"I think I know the guy you mean," he says conversationally to Gerard as he takes them deeper into the building. "You're the other Way brother? We've heard a lot about you."

"What's with the whole taking our weapons if you knew who I was? Obviously we're not a threat to guys with guns."

"You can't be too sure. One of our guys was murdered a fortnight ago while on a scouting mission, stabbed right in the lung and left to rot on his own damn car." The guy shakes his head in disgust. "I swear to god, if I catch the fucker that killed him..."

Frank gulps.

"Here we are!" The guy announces, flinging open a set of double doors. A room of what must be fifty people turns to glare at them, and silence descends like a ravenous hawk.

Nobody moves, frozen still in shock and fear. The world dangles from a spider thread.

" _Gerard_!"

***

[ Frank's POV ]

[ Four years later ]

Frank sees a lot of things, nowadays. Not that he was totally oblivious before, but now he _looks_. He _notices_.

"Come _on_ , Gee, we're going to be late!"

"You can't be late for a picnic, Frank!"

For example, he sees the way Damian looks at Alexandria like she's his whole world and more, the way he rolls his eyes but wears a satisfied grin when she calls him 'her little hell-spawn'. Sometimes Frank wonders what happened between those two to have such a deep understanding of one another because it's eerily creepy the way they balance each other out. Other times he decides he just doesn't want to know.

Jamia is waiting for them at the gate with a beaming smile they both return. As always, she comments on how big the kids are getting, even though she lives next door and sees them every fucking day.

He sees the way Alexandria looks at Pansy, like she's still seeing someone damaged. Like she's still broken. And okay, he admits, maybe she is, a little bit, in the ways she has to force herself to eat every meal and her eyes linger a shadow too long on the knife rack in Frank's kitchen. He sees that too.

But they're working on it.

When they arrive at the memorial park, Pansy's already there clutching a bouquet of red flowers and chattering away to Alex and Damian, who bear two picnic hampers between them. "No Lyn-Z? Alexandria inquires, and Gerard shakes his head regretfully.

Frank watches her too, when she acts totally cool whenever Bandit goes to stay but fails to mask her lost expression every time Gerard shuts the door, or how she still lives a town away and declines any invitation for a cup of coffee. Frank sees she's still hurting.

But she's working on it.

They make their way through the wrought-iron gates and along to the left. Unsurprisingly, Bert's already knelt at the headstone when it comes into view.

"... I brought these for you," Pansy awkwardly offers him the bouquet with a lopsided grin. "Sorry it's not much."

"No... It's perfect. Thank you." Bert rests the flowers by the headstone and shoots Pansy a weak smile. She beams.

Mikey appears and flops down next to her on the tartan blanket, ruffling her newly-buzzed hair and scruffy faux hawk. Smirking, he asks about the mysterious girl from her boat trip over to America, and isn't she working in the flower shop now? As always, she blushes and insists they're just friends, but Frank sees the way she lights up when she talks about her, sees the sappy smile she can't contain.

Frank is starting to realise you can see a lot when you take the time to look.

Damian sets his camera's timer and they all huddle together. Frank turns his head to see Gerard's cheesy grin, the one he only makes when he's too happy to be awkward.

Frank notices Gerard most of all. He sees the way Gerard holds him close when they make love, and how he likes his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches heavy on the jelly and easy on the butter. How he always finds the time to be with their four kids, even when he's run off his feet with work. How he loves to be called sweetheart, but if you call him sugar, darling or baby he'll get pissy. The little purring noises he makes when Frank runs his fingers through his hair in the mornings. The special, secret smile he saves just for Frank. He sees the man he loves.

And really, that's all the incentive Frank needs to take Gerard's hand and get to one knee.

The camera flashes. "I love you, Gee. I love you so fucking much."

"Frankie, I--"

***

A lone, unmarked plane flies over North America.

_New New Jersey National Memorial Park,_ the pilot thinks to himself. _How fitting_.

He hits eject. The world below explodes in flame.

 


End file.
